Sometimes a Bad Dream is More Than a Nightmare
by Jasmineisland
Summary: Sam has always had nightmares. What no one knew was that they weren't just nightmares. Dean just can't find a way beyond the past. Set S2 after Everyone Loves a Clown. h/c bingo prompt trust issues and psychic trauma rated T for language
1. Chapter 1

Telepathic Trauma

Sammy had always had horrific nightmares. What no one knew was that they were not just nightmares.

Set S2 after ELAC

The quiet of the yard was Sam's cue that it was 'safe' to wander outside. Ever since Dean's outburst with a crowbar, Sam had maintained a healthy distance from his brother. His need to talk about his feelings regarding their father's death was just that. His need. Dean made that crystal clear and his older brother at least deserved some consideration for that. So every day he waited until Dean headed inside for a break before he ventured outside for some air that wasn't so damn full of Bobby's knowing glances and sympathy.

The car looked like a car again, a tribute to Dean's dedication and talent, in Sam's opinion. The trunk lid was off again and the trunk was empty, the space into the passenger compartment open. Dean had pulled the back seat and moved it into the garage for repairs. A small pile of what could be called 'shit' was next to the car. Apparently the years of living in the car had left a pile of it under the seat. Kicking the pile gently, Sam almost smiled at what he and/or his brother had lost or hidden in the recesses of the car. More green army men, a math book for 8th grade. Not recognizing it, Sam realized it must have been Dean's. Some shirts, rags mostly torn or blood stained. The Blue Oyster Cult shirt Dean had used when Dad had lost the fight with the berserker in….. Utah? Sam asked himself. He remembered the sound of the shirt ripping. He remembered Dean's voice barking out orders for a 15 year old Sam to get the holy water and dental floss. John giving disjointed orders for what Dean was supposed to do in the event John bled out. _Leave me here, take your brother, and go._ Every detail in horrifying clarity, except where they were. Reaching down, he picked up the rag, which still had some of their father's blood on it. Under the rag was a black composition notebook. In big black letters was 'Sam 1995'. Slowly, Sam picked up the book and stared at it for a long minute. Memories flooded Sam's mind and he almost stumbled to a junked truck to fall into the torn seat.

His nightmares had always been bad. All his life Dean had been the one to wake him by hugging him, but that year John had decided the boys were too old to sleep together unless economics demanded it. Unable to turn to his brother or father, Sam had turned to the internet to find out what he could do about his dreams. One of the things he'd found had been to keep a 'dream journal'. So for a while, that's what he'd done. But it hadn't helped and his biggest fear next to hunting was Dean finding this and using it to torture him. So he'd stopped, and apparently hidden it in the recesses of the back seat.

The first page was dated June 1st. His writing was unfamiliar, and it took a few minutes for Sam to decipher it. A smile crossed his face when he read the dreams of his younger self. Something in the closet, beating on the door and trying to get out. Too much of Dad's journal and late night TV with Dean. Showing up in class for a test that he hadn't known was coming.

"Jesus. No wonder Dad laughed and Dean called me Samantha if this is the shit that scared me." He turned a few pages and read some more.

July 21, 1995

_This thing in a black robe is over me. I don't know what it's doing but I can't move and I feel like it's , tearing something out of me. Felt like it went on forever, and finally I hear Dad's voice yelling something before a gun goes off and I wake up. _

Sam stopped laughing. He knew now that it was the Shtriga. That was a memory trying to make itself known. And since he'd stopped telling Dean or Dad about his dreams by then, no one could tell him that it wasn't just a product of his imagination. No one had ever mentioned the close call until Dad sent them the coordinates for Dean to finish the hunt.

Thinking about that hunt, Sam was actually glad he'd never told Dean about that dream. His older brother was still beating himself up over that one. He would have felt like that dream was his fault, too. Quickly he skimmed a few pages, finding nothing more than the 'normal' bad dreams. Exaggerated versions of memories that had sent him home crying, or altered memories of prior events in his short at that time life. Kids in a school laughing at him, losing a fight with a bully that he'd actually won. It did occur to him that the end of October, the nightmares had increased in frequency.

_October 28, 1995_

_Dad was hunting something in the woods. Not sure why I was there, since I'm not allowed to do anything but sit in the fucking car. But I could hear someone shouting that it was coming to be ready. Dad pulled up his gun and aimed. But everything happened really quick. Dad slipped on something the same time this big dog made a circle around him and came at him from behind. All I see before I wake up is this big black dog jump on Dad and start ripping him apart. Dad screams and I wake up. _

Sam tried to fight a bad feeling this dream gave him. There had been a bad hunt with a black dog that had torn their father apart from behind. But Sam was 99% more sure then he wanted to be that the hunt was after the date on the journal. Dean had stitched Dad up before he brought him home. He'd always known that the hunt went worse than either of them had let on. Still desperately wanting to believe he had been dreaming of past events, he moved on.

_October 30, 1995_

_I dreamed about Coach Bieri last night. No idea why. Hadn't even thought about him since we left Colorado. He was an asshole. Treated me and Dean like shit. Hated Dean because he wasn't a team player and hated me because I wasn't as good at sports as Dean was. But I still had this fucking dream. He was in his office, staring at me while I was in the shower. If that was what he wanted with me, I'm glad we only stayed in that town for three weeks. Really creepy. I knew he was creepy, just didn't know he was a perv, too. Glad I left before I found out. Dean would have shot him if he'd touched me, and Dad would have been pissed at me for getting Dean in trouble. But this dream he's staring at me through the window, but just before I wake up he turns to me- not the me in the shower, but the me that's watching him in my dream. For a split second before I wake up, his eyes look really weird. Freaking yellow. _

Now Sam's heart actually felt like it stopped. Yellow eyes? Was there any way that asshole coach was actually possessed? Had he really dreamed about it? Just as he caught his breath Sam started to yell for Dean, but he stopped himself. This is the last thing Dean would want to deal with right now. Clutching the rag that he was still holding, he forced himself to turn the page and see what else was hiding in the book.

_November 1, 1995_

_Same freakin' dream. A woman, long blonde hair, above me on the ceiling. She's bleeding, it's dripping down on me. Then there's fire. The entire ceiling is burning. I'm trying to reach her, but I can't. It's really hot, and it sounds really loud. Then there's a man. Really tall. Calling my name and pulling me away from her. _

_*** Dad thinks I'm dreaming about what happened to Mom, I heard him tell Dean once, but I don't think so. Dad's not in the dream. I don't know who the man that pulls on me, but he's not Dad. He has short hair and no beard. _

For almost a minute, Sam forgot to breathe. He suddenly realized that it had been the same dream he'd had days before Jessica had burned on the ceiling. At 12, he hadn't recognized an adult Dean dragging him from the burning room. And as an adult, he'd always woken up before that part. Now, sitting in the truck reading the old book, it hit Sam so hard he tried to scream for Dean, but couldn't seem to force enough air into his lungs for his voice to be much above a whisper. He'd dreamed of Jessica when he was 12. His hands were shaking so badly he could barely hold the book still enough to read the final few entries.

_November 2, 1995- not written until November 5 _

_Dad's threatening to kill me. I'm looking down on him, but I can't move. He said something about a gun and me being psychic boy, whatever that means. I can't see much else, it feels like I can't move my head. Dad's laughing at how scared I am, but he won't look at me. I hear Dean begging Dad to not do it, to stop, but I'm not sure what's happening since I can't look. When Dad finally turns to me all I can see is those same fucking yellow eyes I see in my other dreams. _

_*** I'm not sure why the people in my dreams have yellow eyes. I've looked it up and can't find anything. Everything I read says that stress in life can cause dreams to get worse and make you have more of them. Since this time of year sucks balls worse than any other time, that might be the reason. Dad pretty much stays drunk this week, and Dean takes off a lot more. When I woke up from that dream, nobody was home. My head was fucking pounding, so I didn't write this down till now. Probably forgot some of it. Can't think when I get these. I never seem to remember the actual dreams more than a day or two anymore. Dean finally came home at some point and got me some aspirin. Least he didn't tease me because I was crying from my head hurting. If he hadn't been so drunk he probably would have felt bad I was alone when it happened. But such is my fucking life. _

_This isn't fucking helping. Just what I already know. I have bad dreams. Waste of my fucking time. _

That was the last entry in the dream log. But even if there were more entries, there was no way Sam could read them. His entire body was shaking and there were actually tears running down his face. If he'd known or had any idea that his visions had actually started when he was a child…. He still didn't remember the dreams he'd had, but the fact that he'd actually written them down was proof that he'd had them. Sam knew that he'd had migraines periodically, but he'd never attributed them to dreams. Apparently no one else had, either. And the fact that they got worse when November 2 was coming up had a lot more meaning then his life 'sucking balls' or Dad and Dean disappearing.

"Fucking yellow eyes. I was dreaming about that son of a bitch when I was a kid." The full implication hit him and he stood. Furious, he caught one of the cars Dean had beaten with the crow bar out of the corner of his eyes. Seemed like a good idea to him, too. One kick dented the door, another took out the one window Dean had missed. It felt like a good start, but it wasn't enough. A few more kicks into the steel and Sam felt his tears finally slowing. His breath was coming in pants, but he still needed more. Before stopping to think about the end results his fist slammed through the window of a small car. The pain registered in some part of Sam's mind and it seemed to slow down the thoughts that were flying through his mind. Another window, this time leaving blood on the steel door. Dean hadn't left much glass in the immediate vicinity, so Sam moved down a row to more cars. A few more windows, a few more dents and he finally felt his head beginning to clear.

"Son-" A door dented under his fist.

"Of-" A window shattered.

"A Fucking bitch!" Another window followed by a round house kick to the offending door holding it.

Suddenly he was grabbed from behind and shoved into another car. "What the fuck, Sam?"

"Back off, Dean!" Panting, Sam tried to pull away. "You don't even want to fucking know."

"No, I probably don't, but a few more windows and I won't be able to stitch you up." The older brother pointed to the cut and bleeding arms on his younger brother. "You're gonna pass out from blood loss, dumbass."

"Good." Sam pulled his fist back again, aiming for the window he was currently leaning against, but Dean was faster.

Gripping Sam's arm, Dean spun him around he tried to hold him still.

"Let go of me!"

"So you can do more damage? Don't think so, kiddo." Sam continued to struggle, until Dean finally wrenched his arms up behind his back and pinned him. "Okay, Sam. Talk to me. What the fuck?"

The quiet voice in his ear finally reached him. Still panting, Sam shook his head. "Made your point, Dean. Last thing you want to do is talk."

"No, the last thing I want to do is take you to ER. Which I'm going to have to do if you don't stop." Feeling Sam tense, Dean jerked him closer. "Enough, Sam. Stop."

When Sam's shoulders dropped and his head fell forward, Dean knew it was over for the moment. He released his brother and stepped back, ready to grab him again if the younger man started again.

Instead, Sam dropped to his knees.


	2. Chapter 2

Trust Issues

Set Post ELAC and Telepathic Trauma

Dean silently watched his brother kneeling in the broken glass from the car windows he'd broken. Careful not to grab open wounds, he pulled his brother to his feet. "Out of the glass, Sammy.

Come on-"

"I could have stopped it, Dean." This time when Sam's eyes met his brother's, they were full of tears. "I could have stopped all of it if I'd known."

"We could have stopped a lot of shit if we'd known a lot of shit, Sam. Problem is we don't know and we have to figure it out." He succeeded in pulling Sam to his feet, but then lost his grip when Sam pulled away.

"I could have saved them! I didn't know it was real. I could have saved Jess, I could have…. I could have saved Dad, Dean. I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry." Finally losing his strength, Sam put his hands on the trunk of a car and leaned on it.

"You…." Dean knew there was more to this, but for a moment all he could do was stand there and watch his brother cry. For the first time since John's death, he reached up and put his hand on the back of Sam's neck. "Sammy, I know you would have saved Jess and Dad if you could have. So why don't you tell me what you're talking about."

Bobby approached them with some towels to wrap Sam's arms. He was glad the boys were finally talking, but the amount of blood Sam was losing wasn't good.

Not lifting his head, Sam sighed. "Bobby, there's a black composition book by that red truck."

By the time Bobby returned with it Dean was wrapping towels around his brother's arms.

"Let's get you inside. I'm gonna have to stitch a few of these. Probably got glass in your knees, now, too. Right?"

Sam shrugged, but he thought Dean was right. He allowed the older Winchester to lead him inside and to the kitchen table. The first aid kit was already out, thanks to Bobby, so Dean put Sam in a chair and began to clean the cuts and pull glass from his brother's skin. "Good job, Sammy. More glass in your skin then in the frames out there."

"Read the book, Dean." Sam's voice was strained.

"Need to stitch you up first, Dude."

"Read the god damned book, Dean."

"If you pass out, I'm kicking your ass, Sammy. Sit still."

"And shut up. I know the drill. Bobby, you read it. He'll listen to you."

Hearing the resigned tone in his brother's whisper, Dean knew he'd won. At first he worked on Sam's arm, efficiently removing glass and deciding which cuts needed stitches. But after almost fifteen minutes of nothing more than quiet, pained, almost-whimpers from Sam, he realized the damage went far beyond blood loss.

"Dean?" Bobby's voice was low. "Sam's right. You need to read this."

Taking the book from Bobby, Dean leaned back and started to read. "A dream journal from when you were 12?" He actually snorted and laughed a few times at the beginning pages. Random, yet perfectly normal bad dreams of embarrassment more than anything else amused him. "Jesus, Sam. Out there much?"

"Stops being funny real quick." Bobby sat at the table and waited with Sam for Dean to finish.

Both men knew when Dean had hit the pages that were marked closer to November 2nd. He was stunned when he read about the hunt he'd been on with John that went bad. "Dad never told you about that black dog, did he?"

"Check the date, Dean. That hunt was after, I'm almost positive."

"Who can remember that, Sam?" He read more, getting to a dream about their coach in high school having sexual thoughts about Sam. "I remember that asshole. Prick was the word I used when…." Green eyes lifted from the book and met Sam's when he read about the coach having yellow eyes in the dream. "What the fuck?"

"Keep going."

When Dean finished the last entries, where Sam had suffered dreams of Jessica burning on the ceiling and their father being possessed years before either happened, he threw the book across the room. "God Dammit, Sam. You were having dreams about the yellow eyed demon and never told me or Dad? What the fuck was wrong with you? You knew Dad was hunting-"

"I didn't know SHIT, Dean! You and Dad had your little secret hunter's club and Sammy wasn't invited, remember?"

"Poor Sammy, he was so mistreated and abused that he tried to hide the fact that he was dreaming about the fucking demon we spent our lives looking for!" Dean glared at his brother. "I can't fucking believe this. How long, Sam? How long were you dreaming about him?"

"I told you what I knew. A few days before Jess died I had that same dream. But I swear, I don't remember having it before then."

"Yeah, 'cause you're so fucking honest."

Sam stood up so fast he knocked over his chair. "What the fuck does that mean?"

"It means that you never wanted to be here, you've always been half out the fucking door, so you only told us what you absolutely had to." Standing to face him, Dean stepped closer. "Nothing's changed, Sam."

"I don't believe this." Sam headed for the door.

"That's right, Sammy. Hit the road. It's what you do best. Gonna be another two years before I see you?" Dean's voice was loud, but Bobby could see the hurt hiding underneath.

Sam stopped at the door. "What the fuck, Dean? I'm going outside for some air." He thought about it and his voice shook on his next statement. "You want me to leave, don't you."

"Better than waiting around for you to find a better gig. Maybe you'd better find somebody you actually trust enough to tell the truth."

Bobby watched Sam run up the stairs. Turning to Dean, he tried to control his temper. "You know what? I've never seen a bigger display of stupid in my life. You just talked your brother into leaving. You don't want him to go, and he sure as hell don't want to go, so what the fuck was that?"

"You were sitting there. You read that god damned journal. He was dreaming about the yellow eyed demon when he was twelve and never bothered to say a word about it. He was still having dreams when he came back. He just didn't want to tell me."

Bobby knew that Dean was too angry and hurt to discuss any of it at that moment. Quickly he went up the stairs, not surprised to find Sam hastily stuffing his meager belongings into his duffle.

"Give him time, Sam. You know your brother."

"I think maybe what he needs is space." He kept his back to Bobby, not wanting the other man to see how much Dean's words had hurt him. "From me."

Hearing the way Sam's voice cracked from emotion, Bobby wasn't sure what to do. He knew Sam would rebuff any attempt at comfort from him. Dean was the only one he'd accept any kind of gesture from at this point. "You don't want to leave."

"Dean wants me to."

"The hell he does." Bobby decided that in the best interest of his boys he was going to put his foot right smack in the middle of them. "Whether he can say it or not, you're all he has left, boy. Same goes for you."

Sam shook his head not turning around. "He wants Dad. I can't give him that."

"Like you don't? Dean's been stomping around here like he's pissed off at everything, and don't think I haven't noticed that's included you. You've moped around here trying to be invisible. I've stayed out of it 'cause I thought you two would get your head out of your asses and figure things out. But no, you two had to go and let everything blow up to the point you're packing your shit and Dean's just watching you."

No answer.

"Look at me." When Sam turned, Bobby wasn't surprised to see that younger man was crying. "You and your brother are so fucked up when it comes to talking, and that's on your Dad. But if you two call it quits now and never speak again, that's on me. Not gonna fucking happen. You hear me?" Bobby's voice had risen with each word and was now echoing through the house. "Get your ass downstairs. Now!"

Having only heard Bobby that pissed off at his father before, Sam moved down the stairs and stopped when he reached the kitchen.

Dean equally stunned eyes met his. "He doesn't have a shotgun, does he?"

"I heard that, and don't think I won't go get it! Now both of you, shut up and plant your asses in a chair!"

It was a struggle for Bobby to not show the boys how shocked he was that they followed his order silently. He lowered his voice. "Now, you're Dad's gone, and I'm sorry. But it's time for you," Bobby pointed to Dean. "to stop acting like the sound of your brother breathing is offensive. And you," his attention turned to Sam. "to stop moping around here like if you let Dean kick you enough everything will fix itself."

"He doesn't want to be here."

"He doesn't want me here."

Both voices overlapped each other and Bobby slammed his hands down on the table hard enough to bounce half the first aid kit and a beer bottle to the ground. "If everything comin' outta both of your mouths is gonna be that stupid, just shut up. If Sam wanted to be gone, he would be gone. You know him well enough for that. The way you've been treatin' him? I'd kicked your ass a week ago and packed my shit. If Dean wanted you gone, he wouldn't mix words and he'd tell you to go out the door and not come back, just like your Daddy did. That journal of Sam's scared the shit out of both of you. Deal with it, and not by calling each other names and throwing accusations like you're in your teens and not your twenties."

Both Winchesters stared at Bobby with their mouths open.

"Now, I'm gonna go buy a bra for the tits you two made me grow. You two are going to fucking talk to each other."

After Bobby stormed out of the house, the brothers stared at each other in silence for a moment. Sighing, Sam went to the fridge and grabbed two beers. He handed one to Dean and sat down. "Thought Bobby was gonna fill our asses with rock salt."

"He still might." Dean stared at the door.

An awkward silence followed. Finally Sam decided to bite the bullet. "I can tell you I'm here because I want to be. I can tell you that I honest to God had no idea I was dreaming about the demon. I can tell you I didn't remember the dreams until I saw that book. I just don't know how to convince you I'm telling the truth."

"What about the dreams about Jess? Not the ones you had at 12, the ones you had just before-….. " Dean was trying to make a point, not throw salt in Sam's raw wounds.

No longer interested in defending himself, Sam met Dean's eyes evenly. "I had no idea what it meant, I had no idea how you would react, and I couldn't deal with the fact that I could have saved her." His voice broke, tears filled his eyes, but the younger man refused to let his eyes waver from his brothers. "And I told you as soon as I realized the dream about our old house might mean something. And I gave you the journal as soon as I read it." He wiped his eyes and looked down at the table.

Sighing, Dean ran his hands through his hair. "Wish you'd stop beating yourself up over that, Sammy. I guess I should have asked you more about your dreams when you were a kid."

It was as close to an apology as Sam was going to get, and he was more than willing to let Dean know it was enough for him. "Dean, you were just starting to hunt with Dad when I did that. You were busy."

His tone was flat, but Dean had skimmed over the page where Sam had written how much Dean had disappeared from his younger brother's life. He knew he'd hurt Sam. "I'm going to say this one time. Bobby's right. We're all that's left, and we both need to remember that. I've been a dick. I believe you didn't know about the dreams, but that you want to be here and you'll stick around? Have to wait and see on that one, Sammy. That's the best I can give you." Standing, Dean moved to the door. "Now I have to go tell Bobby to buy two fuckin' bras."

Alone in the kitchen, Sam finally smiled. At least he'd escaped being accused of needing a bra of his own, for once. His arms hurt like a bitch, and he still needed to see how much glass he'd managed to imbed in knees, but he knew that Dean was at least going to give him the chance to prove himself.

The door opened again, but Sam didn't turn. He was surprised when something hit him in the head from behind. Turning, he saw a black lace bra with pink trim on the floor that had most likely been in the pile of shit Dean had pulled from under the back seat of the Impala. So much for escaping.

"Might look as good on you as it did Katie. Carrie, Candice, whatever the fuck her name was."

Turning to his brother, Sam flashed him a smug grin. "Her name was Lynn, and I was the one that got it off of her." He kneeled to get the first aid kit, but winced as his weight hit the cuts and glass in his knees.

Gently, Dean took his brother's upper arm and led him to a chair. "Makes sense. You always were the sentimental bitch that needed to keep souvenirs." With a satisfied laugh, he looked at Sam's knees. "Few tears in the jeans. Take 'em off or cut 'em?"

Sam sighed. He couldn't win, but he was grateful for the effort Dean making. Standing, he fought with his jeans briefly before they hit the ground. Any other day he would have fought with his older brother that he could do it himself. But, today, he too relieved to have Dean in front of him ready to help him. Sam hoped the older man needed it as much as he did at that moment.


End file.
